


Left Him With Nothin' But Ruined Pride

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Mistaken Identity, fake!laf, probably incorrect french, very bad not good unwholesome content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 08:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13830552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jefferson is not wearing his coat and Hamilton is not wearing his glasses. A seemingly harmless set of circumstances ends up leaving a permanent stain.





	Left Him With Nothin' But Ruined Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so. Having sex with someone who thinks you are a different person (and thus does not consent to having sex with you) is rape, hence the noncon tag. There’s however no violent imagery in this one, like your “typical” noncon scenario would have. Doesn’t make it any less rape, just something to be aware of. If in doubt, sit this one out.
> 
> This is of course loosely inspired by the amazing [fake!laf au](http://virusap.tumblr.com/tagged/fake-Laf) by tumblr user virusap (late to the party as usual).

Nothing like summer in the city. The heat almost feels like its own entity, pressing flush against an unsuspecting passersby with no regard for personal space.

As a Southerner Jefferson is no stranger to the heat of course; maybe it’s the mass of sweat-reeking bodies and the lack of windy, rolling fields that makes the New York City sun feel a lot harsher than the one in Virginia. Whatever the cause, he finds himself shedding his purple overcoat and irritably tossing it to the seat of his carriage. Not reeking of sweat along with the rest of the city seems like a viable tradeoff for compromising propriety and style.

Hamilton is hardly anyone worth impressing anyway.

It’s irritating, having to _chase_ Hamilton, of all people. Degrading, even. Jefferson is a busy man and someone has to keep the Union running while the Secretary of Treasury holes himself into his home office with his precious writings. But if Hamilton thinks not showing up to Congress will save him from overviewing Jefferson’s bill proposals, he’ll have another thing coming.

A droplet of sweat trickles down the back of Jefferson’s neck, all the way down between his shoulder blades like a sticky parody of a lover’s caress. He clicks his tongue in irritation and pulls his mass of hair back with a queue. To hell with elegance, Hamilton will get a piece of his mind once he gets there.

The man doesn’t even look up from his desk when a jittery servant girl lets Thomas into the chaotic study. A good portion of the piles upon piles of papers on Hamilton’s desk have cascaded to the floor, probably due to a stray breeze from the window that has been left ajar. Hamilton, also stripped to his thin undershirt, is hunched over his writing with his eyes narrowed like he’s struggling to read the scripture, but nevertheless determined to finish what is no doubt another goddamn Federalist pamphlet.

“I’ve misplaced my damn glasses again Betsey, do you mind having a look for them?” Hamilton grunts without looking up and Thomas can’t really fault him for missing the _‘Mister Jefferson is here to see you, sir’_ the servant girl had squeaked before scurrying out of the room.

The sheer domesticity of the scene sits awkwardly with Jefferson. He clears his throat.

Hamilton’s head snaps up at the unmistakably masculine sound and the relentless scratch of quill against paper finally quiets down.

“I-"

“Gilbert?”

Jefferson’s mouth snaps closed.

Hamilton pushes away from the table and stands up slowly, a mixture of confusion and mounting joy on his face. “I thought you wouldn’t be back from France for another month.”

The man has gone mad. The heat has cooked Hamilton’s brain medium rare, or the perpetual stage of rage the man seems to inhabit, or both perhaps.

Although rage is far from the mood Hamilton exudes now; he circles the table slowly and walks up to Jefferson with a playful sway to his hips, very unlike the usual tin soldier-like stride he tends to adopt in congress. Surely he’ll be able to tell now, from a closer range. Lafayette (if that is truly who Hamilton is mistaking Jefferson for) shares a similar silhouette with him, but they’re far from identical.

Perhaps it’s a fever. There does appear to be a dusting of pink on the apples of Hamilton’s cheeks as he stalks across the floor up to Thomas.

“Oh, how I have longed to see this face,” Hamilton says softly and cups Jefferson’s jaw with one hand. The sheer absurdness of the whole setting is what keeps Thomas from jerking away from the caress of the soft palm and slightly calloused fingers.

There’s a… curious softness to Hamilton’s expression as his thumb strokes the line of Thomas’ cheekbone. It feels almost perverse, seeing the side of Hamilton reserved to his innermost circle. His face looks different when it’s not contorted into a mask of hatred, or stiff with forced polite disdain. His lips are quirked into a coy smile and there’s a playful twinkle in his eyes. Suddenly Thomas finds himself presented with a novel, very strange version of his political nemesis.

_Curious. Playful. Vulnerable._

Some predatory instinct rears its head inside Jefferson and tells him to bide his time and see where this goes.

Hamilton’s fingers brush along the line of Jefferson’s jaw and… down his neck and over the swell of his chest muscles and he says, “Though perhaps you’ll forgive me if I admit your face is not the only thing I’ve longed to see, _mon amour.”_

And then, with no warning or preamble, Hamilton is upon him; lips and teeth clashing into his and fingers tangling in his cravat and yanking him down for better access. Thomas loses his balance for a moment, takes a clumsy half step further into Hamilton’s space, his hands clamping down on the other man’s shoulders. Hamilton makes a small pleased sound and that lithe body of his bends at the spine, molds to fit line Thomas’ tall frame towering over him.

Perhaps the heat is not only getting at Hamilton – suddenly Jefferson's hands are finding purchase in his adversary’s hair, his sides, his hips. And Hamilton just _does whatever Jefferson wants;_ tilts his head to the side to grant better access for Thomas’s teeth on his neck, lets his body be molded like clay, or maybe fondant would be a better word for it since he is so sweet and so deliciously willing to be feasted upon.

A breathless, bark-like laugh leaves Jefferson’s lips and Hamilton pulls back enough to look at his face, chest rising and falling erratically and swollen lips stretched into a cat-like grin. Jefferson has never considered Hamilton a particularly attractive man but right now, for whatever reason, the prospect of having Hamilton under him, naked and begging, is-

“Something amusing?”

-irresistible.

~

Lafayette’s smile is slow and promising and yet a little bit puzzled, like some profound realization is dawning upon him as they stare each other down in a heavy, meaningful kind of silence.

“Oh, nothing to worry about, _mon amour,”_ he says and starts to advance upon Hamilton. Alex smirks and lets Lafayette stalk him slowly across the room until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of his desk. Lafayette stands close, so close Hamilton can feel the heat radiating off his body, like the man deliberately wants to trap him there.

Gilbert’s palm comes to rest on his throat, thumb stroking slowly over his pulse point and Hamilton has to grip the edge of the desk to stay upright. It has to be the sudden exhilaration of so unexpectedly seeing his wartime lover that causes his heart to hammer in his ears the way it does. That’s the only conceivable explanation for how strung out he feels, how quick and shallow his breath is coming out.

Gilbert’s other hand tangles in his hair and yanks his head back, and his scent is making Hamilton dizzy – sweat, skin and cologne. And it should make sense that Gilbert would smell different than usual, him being prone to trying out new fashionable perfumes on a whim, but the cologne is somehow familiar and yet not quite right at the same time. It calls the halls of congress to Hamilton’s mind, of all things and it nags at him like a slightly misplaced piece of cutlery in an otherwise impeccably set dining table.

But it is difficult to make sense of such an ambiguous feeling with Gilbert’s hands running carefully and methodologically over his body as if to re-memorize every dip and contour of muscle and bone after their time apart, and with the fog that has been clouding Hamilton’s mind due to the sleepless nights and the scorching days, so he doesn’t bother. Lafayette sucks in a sharp breath as Alexander’s palm presses against the front of his breeches. Their lips clash together again and Hamilton grins into the kiss as he feels his lover stiffen under his touch.

Lafayette growls, deep at the bottom of his throat, and bites down on Hamilton’s lower lip. He keens and whines in a manner very unlike him, in most contexts.

“Now if memory serves me right,” Hamilton pants as they finally separate for a breath, “you were quite fond of my month during the war.” He licks a long, salty line across Gilbert’s jugular. “Shall I refresh your memory?”

Lafayette inhales deeply and draws Hamilton’s neck taunt from his hair. The sweet sting across his scalp pulls the air out of his lungs.

“No, I think not,” he says almost absentmindedly. “I think I’ll have you naked across this desk.” Gilbert taps the wooden surface of the office desk for emphasis.

Hamilton opens his mouth to reply, but then he’s being spun around and the thin fabric of his shirt is ripping open with a sound that feels like it’s cutting a gash clean across his consciousness. Good thing Eliza is out of town - though she doesn’t mind Alexander’s occasional male lovers, she prefers not to be around when they call. And Hamilton knows this will be loud, the anticipation of it curls and uncurls restlessly in the pit of his stomach.

A hand pushes on the small of his back and Alex bends over the table obediently. Gilbert’s hand then trails down across his skin, brushes over his shoulder blades and sweeps slowly down the line of his spine.

“So pretty and well-behaved for me,” Gilbert murmurs, his voice unusually husky and low in his chest. This is the part where he would usually switch to French terms of endearment, but not tonight it would seem.

“The oil is in the usual place,” Hamilton says to the polished wood of his desk.

“Ah, refresh my memory?”

“Upper right drawer.”

“Don’t move.”

Steps and clanking and Hamilton’s heart still drums an insistent beat against the wood of his desk. Lafayette sweeps a stack of papers onto the floor just to make room for the small bottle and Alexander’s nose scrunches up; picking those up and sorting them will be a pain. Whatever Lafayette has against his latest bill drafts?

Well, Hamilton soon forgets about all that as his breeches and stockings are pushed all the way down to his ankles and an oil-stick finger circles his entrance. He sighs and rocks back into it, lets the tension of these past months of congress-hell drain out of his body. In a way this isn’t unlike their liaisons during the war, back when they found refuge from the blood and the death and the weighty gaze of history in each other's embrace. For a moment Hamilton forgets about congress and the financial plan and the Democratic Republicans and Washington’s ever-looming figure telling him to _figure it out, son, whatever it takes._

Two fingers push into him at once and the burning stretch of it makes Hamilton hiss. “That’s it, take it all,” Gilbert murmurs and Alexander makes a valiant effort to relax his muscles and let it happen to him. He’s going to show Gil what he’s been missing.

The fingers prod and probe until they find something that knocks the air out of Hamilton’s lungs in the form of a wanton moan. There’s a contemplative hum and Gilbert bears on the spot mercilessly, rubs the pads of his fingers over it in quick succession until Hamilton is groaning and trembling against the unforgiving wood of his desk, his fingers twitching and crumbling up some stray parchment that happen under them. He’s painfully hard now, feels his desire drip down on the wood paneling of the floor. He’ll have to do something about that later, God knows he won’t be asking the doe-eyed servant girl to clean it up.

A third finger pushes in and before Hamilton finishes whimpering at the stretch there’s a hand around him, languidly pumping up and down his length, smearing his seed across the tip.

“O-oh,” he chokes out.

“I want to hear you beg for it,” Gilbert purrs and withdraws his fingers. “Beg for me.”

Hamilton swallows around his suddenly clumsy tongue. “Please, can’t you see how I yearn for it?”

He vaguely registers the sound of a vial being tilted, and a dollop of oil hits his fluttering hole and slides down his crack.

“You can do better than that, _mon petit sale.”_

“Please, please,” he gasps. “Please fuck me, Gilb-”

Pain erupts over Hamilton’s left ass cheek and he gasps, more from the shock of it than the pain itself. He’s no stranger to being disciplined in this manner by any stretch of the imagination, but Gilbert has never stricken him before, not even once. That sort of this was never-

The click of a belt buckle being undone, the rustling of fabric sliding over skin and all thoughts flee Hamilton’s mind. Gilbert pushes in with short, insistent thrust, only stopping when necessary to allow Alexander to stretch around him. It’s relentless, insistent and self-serving, it’s-

_Different._ That’s the thought that won’t leave Hamilton’s mind like that slightly misplaced piece of cutlery, even as Lafayette’s length fills him in the most delicious of ways, even as his fingerprints press into Hamilton’s hips hard enough to etch the marks into his bones. Lafayette can be rough, oh yes, that ferocity large enough to be barely contained in one man is part of what makes them so well matched both on the battlefield and in the boudoir, but he is always as attentive as he is passionate.

The way Gilbert pulls back and slams in hard enough to make the legs of the desk scrape against the floor makes Alex feel like he’s being punished as much as claimed. Like Gilbert wants to leave his mark on his very soul, the type of claim his liberal French sentiments never quite elicited.

“Gi-gilb-ert,” Hamilton chokes out and there’s another smack. Gilbert grabs his hair and yanks his head back and it’s so much, the harsh thrusts that shake him at his very core, the sting on his scalp, the way his hips and cock slam into the unforgiving edge of the table with every thrust. Gilbert’s nails are digging into his side and he smells like crowded debate floors and late nights at the office and hopeless frustration burning at the pit of Hamilton’s stomach. It mixes in with his arousal into a senseless, unholy cocktail of contradictions and he whimpers and moans with the confusion of it all. He can just so make out the heavy breathing, the quiet curses Gilbert mutters under his breath with every thrust. _Slut. Bastard. Whoreson._

Before Alex can begin to organize the cacophony of sensations pushing him under, Gilbert lets go of his hip and wraps a hand around him instead. It’s like someone connects lightning rods to his temples, the way he screams and seizes up and goes limp in rapid succession at the visceral pleasure of it.

“Come for me, Hamilton,” Gilbert growls, as if Alex has any choice in the matter when the grip runs up his length and twists at the slicked tip.

Hamilton’s cry comes out sounding more like a sob as he plummets over the edge and comes and comes, that grip milking him to and past the point of oversensitive pain, and the cock in his ass ramming in again and again in quickening succession. Gilbert bites on Hamilton’s shoulder and thrusts in so hard the table does jerk a few inches forward, and Hamilton groans as he feels the hot rush of come deep inside him. He wouldn’t be walking right for… who knows how long, truly.

Gilbert slumps briefly down and his tall frame squishes Hamilton into the table. Crumbling papers under his palms, all filled with meticulously laid out arguments, now a senseless jumble of smudged ink under his trembling fingers.

Gilbert lets out a breathless, slightly disbelieving laugh and presses a close-mouthed kiss on the nape of Hamilton’s neck as he pulls out and straightens up.

“Well, thank you for that, darlin’.”

There is a brief, quiet and eerily calm moment when the mind tries and fails to bend around the incomprehensible, slides off of it like water off a waxed surface. Hamilton’s legs give out him, and with no other body to hold him in place, he falls onto the floor with a sharp thud. Pain flares up his right kneecap as it hits the hard unforgiving floor, but he doesn’t attend to it. One of his hands maintains a grip on the edge of the desk, as if to anchor him into the time ten seconds ago before everything clicked into place with a sickening snap.

The Secretary of State smiles down at Alex with all of his white canine teeth on display, as he tucks his softening member back into his breeches.

“I must say, this was not the outcome I was expecting for this visit, but you know what they say about rolling with the punches.”

Jefferson’s scent. Now that he knows, it’s like Jefferson’s scent is everywhere, sweat and expensive cologne clinging to his hair, and his skin and his soul. “Y-you…” Hamilton chokes out but the icy terror spreading through his bloodstream leaves him frozen, there. _This can’t be-_

Jefferson’s smile is languid and cruel and it pushes under Hamilton’s skin with ease, gets at his core easy as anything and soils it beyond recognition. “I rather think,” he says quietly, “you are not in the state of mind to be looking over my bill proposals right now. Well, another day.”

He picks up the shreds of Hamilton’s shirt on his way to the door and tosses it over his shoulder. It lands somewhere close to his quivering knees. “And who knows, maybe we can have a look at that financial plan of yours too, since you asked so nicely.”

~

It happens in a room. Hamilton’s hands are resting folded on his lap, carefully away from the white pristine table cloth. He doesn’t trust himself to hold a teacup, the way the Virginians are. Doesn’t trust the porcelain not to click against the saucer in a telling fashion.

Jefferson is looking at him. He’s always _looking_ at him, these days. No matter where he is, whether he’s conscious or not, those eyes can see him no matter what mask he puts on. Can see the filth under his skin.

Hamilton is paying very close attention to the cream pattern on the table cloth.

“Are you feeling quite alright, Mister Secretary?” Madison asks, polite and innocuous. Always impossible to tell whether he _knows_ or not, with Madison. “You seem rather reluctant to be here.”

“But surely that cannot be the case,” Jefferson drawls and it’s almost as though there is a hint of a French cadence curling around the vowels. Not detectable, unless one looks for it. “Considering the way he begged for this meeting at Washington’s doorstep.”

_Begged for, begged for,_ it rings through Hamilton’s head like a funeral toll, slow and inevitable.

“Yes,” he says, quiet and raspy, after swallowing twice.

Somewhere in the periphery of his vision, Jefferson’s lips curl up into an approving smile.

“Then let us negotiate.”

**Author's Note:**

> I took the time to write this horrible thing so I’m posting it, but it’s getting orphaned because sharing problematique stuff is scary. Thanks for reading!


End file.
